


Absent

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Phone Sex, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy calls Thomas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absent

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When Mr. Carson pokes out of his room just in time to catch Thomas walking by, Thomas quickens his step automatically. He has no desire to work more than he has to and has nothing at all to say to Mr. Carson, until Mr. Carson calls after him, “Thomas, you have a telephone call.”

Then Thomas stops in his tracks, glances over his shoulder, and wills all his hope down. Lately, it’s only ever one person—not that he had anyone to call on him before—but he still doesn’t want to get excited if it’s nothing. But Mr. Carson adds, “It’s James,” in that deep rumble of his and that look that reads he’s troubled. 

Half the world troubles Mr. Carson, and Thomas doesn’t care about any of it. He fights to keep his grin to a reasonable response, and he drawls, “Thank you, Mr. Carson.” It’s an effort to turn and stroll to Mr. Carson’s office at a casual pace, rather than running like he wants to. 

The telephone sits where it always does on Mr. Carson’s desk, the receiver off the end and a cup of tea next to it. Thomas wraps his wounded hand around the base and expects Mr. Carson to fetch the tea and leave, but instead, he settles back down into his desk, fixing Thomas with one of those _I’m watching you_ looks. Thomas flashes a brief, innocent smile, as though he couldn’t care less whether Mr. Carson stays, though in reality, it’ll cut their conversation down considerably. 

Thomas lifts the telephone off the desk and takes it as far away as possible, turning his shoulder to Mr. Carson and lifting the receiver. He can feel Mr. Carson’s gaze burning into the back of his head, and it pains him to know he’ll have to keep this short; if he could, he’d buy a telephone for his own room and speak with Jimmy all night. Instead, he breathes a tight, “Mr. Kent.”

 _“Mr. Barrow,”_ Jimmy’s voice rings on the other end, a little teasing and sweet and something Thomas desperately misses. Thomas lets his eyes slide shut, the surrounding office fading out, the blackness and the sound of _Jimmy Kent_ fading in. _“I’m glad I caught you.”_

“We’re still in the same time zone, you noodle,” Thomas chuckles. Then stops abruptly; Mr. Carson does so hate laughter and just about any other form of fun. “What is it?”

 _“Oh, I need a reason now?”_ They’ve already discussed Jimmy’s new situation, ‘caught up’ and gossiped and said everything important. They did that all again just yesterday. Jimmy must know that Mr. Carson won’t let this go on forever. 

To convey the short term of that, Thomas answers, “Mr. Carson sends his regards.”

_“I doubt that very much. Are you trying to tell me he’s there?”_

“I’m in his office. Now, what did you call for?”

_“What are you wearing?”_

Thomas says, “What,” before thinking. It’s not even so much a question as a blank response. 

Jimmy repeats, clear and unmistakable, _“You heard me. Still your full uniform, I suppose? Tails and everything?”_

“...Yes...”

_“Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”_

_Yes._ Now that’s an unusual thing to say over the telephone. Or at all, really. Thomas was already picturing Jimmy, in a casual suit and maybe that lopsided little hat of his, beautiful blond hair brushed aside. But Thomas knows better than to let his head go into details in public, and he warns, “Jimmy...”

_“Nothing.”_

Thomas’ breath hitches. Wearing _nothing_. There’s no way of knowing if it’s true or not, but Thomas’ head whirls to accommodate, stripping his mental image down to bare, smooth skin, a taut chest, creamy thighs, that strong back that he first got that one forbidden glimpse of…

 _“That’s right,”_ Jimmy’s voice purrs, filling Thomas’ world, clouding up his ears and mind with thoughts that should never be in Mr. Carson’s office. _“I’m not wearing a thing at the moment, not a single stitch of clothing. I just wanted you to know that, Thomas. Thought you’d like to know. I’m sitting here, in a nice chair, right out in the open, running my own hand over my stomach... I have that old glove of yours; I’m still wearing it—”_

“Jimmy,” Thomas grits out, now almost hissing, but he can’t properly, can’t give anything away. Suddenly, his collar feels exponentially too tight. It’s hot in this little office, in all his many layers. Thomas turns his back completely to Mr. Carson, sure his face is burning. But Jimmy’s an egocentric brat, and he doesn’t seem to care that Thomas is in no position for this. 

_“I know you can’t talk, and that’s alright.”_ It sounds like he’s smirking. God, he probably is, and the image in Thomas’ head quirks, lips an enticing little curve that sucks in all of Thomas’ attention. _“You can just listen, and I’ll tell you all about what I’m up to, here all by myself, touching myself with my own hand and pretending it’s yours. Like that, don’t you? I didn’t want to really start until I heard you. I miss your voice, Thomas...”_

Thomas opens his mouth, wants to say _I miss you too._ God. _So much._ But he stops himself just in time. Mr. Carson _knows_ about Thomas, and if he ever suspects about Jimmy, there won’t be anymore phone calls. He mutters carefully, “It’s not the same here without you.” His voice sounds strained, even to his own ears.

 _“It’s alright,”_ Jimmy sighs. _“I know you miss me. I bet you think about me all the time.”_ Of course he does. Every day. _“But I wasn’t sure if you think about me like this, sitting all bare and hard and aching for you.”_ Thomas nearly chokes. He’s picturing it now, he couldn’t _not_ , and what Jimmy’s doing is something akin to torture, but he doesn’t stop. _“If you were alone, I’d ask you to tell me what to do. How you want me. But instead, I suppose I’ll just spread my legs on my own, and tell you what I’m doing, that I’m wrapping my fingers around my cock and wishing they were yours. I love how your glove feels on my skin. Do you remember that time we stole the syrup from the kitchen, and you drizzled it all over my crotch and licked it off my balls?”_

Thomas’ throat is dry. His knuckles are white around the base of the telephone, and he licks his lips and somehow manages to say, “I remember.” If he had any sense at all, he’d hang up the telephone right now and bolt for his room, but he _can’t_ give up Jimmy, not any small part of him. Thomas worked too hard to get so much as a ‘hello,’ to earn a tentative friendship, to grow that and fan those flames until Jimmy came around, worked it out for himself and opened up to trying _more._ And then, by the time Jimmy left...

 _“That felt so good, Thomas—your mouth always felt good; I can’t wait to have it on me again. I don’t know how we’ll work it out, but I know we will, and then you’re going to do this for me so I don’t have to pretend. I’m stroking my cock up and down and running my hand over my chest, teasing my nipples like you used to do. I miss your tongue. I miss your mouth, your hands, you arse. Your face, your cock. Thomas...”_ He pauses to _moan_ , something deep and filthy and nothing but pure sin. Thomas is nearly trembling; he remembers every one of those noises and they haunt him, and Jimmy’s breath is coming quicker; he grunts like he’s biting his lip, and then he moans again, _“You’re going to do this for me, aren’t you, Thomas? Touch my cock?”_

Thomas breathes, “Yes, Jimmy.” Of course he’ll do that. He’d do anything Jimmy asked. The cold cylinder in his fist is becoming slick with sweat, the receiver sticking to his ear. He can’t seem to loosen his ironclad grip. For a few seconds, the only sounds are Jimmy’s pants and whines, raunchy, forbidden things that make Thomas feel like his trousers are far too tight. He shouldn’t, but he asks, “What... what are you doing now?”

 _“Fingering myself,”_ Jimmy groans, beautiful, so irresistible, _“Just like you showed me. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that... I’ve never had another man before you... and then you come along and lust after me and are so good to me, until I need your voice like I do. I wish it was your fingers inside me. I’m stretching my hole open. Tell me you miss my hole, Thomas. Tell me you miss being in my arse...”_

Thomas can’t say anything even remotely like that. He knows Jimmy isn’t lying, because he recognizes every little gasp Jimmy makes. He can picture Jimmy’s tight, puckered entrance being gently prodded open, Jimmy’s soft thighs trembling and Jimmy’s engorged cock pulsing happily, waiting for that hand to return, ready to be taken. Then he thinks of Jimmy using one of _his_ old gloves to wank, and it’s all too much—how is Jimmy getting away with this in a room with a telephone?

“Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Carson suddenly adds from behind him, and Thomas glances over his shoulder with what’s supposed to be a placating smile but is probably more of a wince—he knows, he knows. He has to wrap this up. Before he winds up with a tent in his trousers or worse. He’s already got that. 

Thomas licks his lips and forces himself to say, “Jimmy, I have to go soon...”

 _“Not until I’m done,”_ Jimmy insists, because isn’t Jimmy always about _Jimmy_? Thomas so desperately wishes he could help, reach right through the strange device and wrap his arms around his lover, but all he can do is shut his eyes and picture Jimmy wildly fucking his own hand. _“Make me come, Thomas. You live to make me come. You have to do that before you can go.”_

“I don’t...”

_“Talk to me. Say something. Anything.”_

Thomas lowers his voice, begs, “Jimmy, _please_ —” And that’s it. Jimmy cries out over the other end, so loud that Thomas would wrench the receiver away if he weren’t so desperate for it. Instead, he clutches it tight, soaks it in, pictures Jimmy’s handsome cock spurting jets of sticky, white seed all across his stomach, and Thomas would give anything to be over there, licking it off. Instead, he strains to hear every last little bit of Jimmy’s orgasm, each hiss and whine and groan. For a split second, there’s static, and Thomas fears Jimmy’s dropped the telephone—perhaps he was holding the end between his cheek and shoulder and needed both hands to milk his orgasm out from both ends. Thomas is panting and mumbles, “Jimmy...”

A second passes, and everything straightens out, Jimmy’s voice returns to sigh, _“That felt good. ...If Mr. Carson is there though, he’s going to be awfully suspicious. You must’ve said my name a dozen times.”_

Cheeky little thing. Thomas is even worse when he’s alone, speaking just to fantasies and dreams. He grits out, “You didn’t leave me much choice.”

_“Are you hard?”_

Wood’s scraping; and even as Thomas looks back, Mr. Carson’s getting out of his chair to come hover at Thomas’ side, standing proper and straight and not nearly so flustered, and Thomas wants to say something snarky to send him away but can’t think right now. “That’s quite enough, Thomas. Tell James that if there’s anything more, it will have to wait to come in the post like everyone else’s news.” Thomas nods shallowly. 

He says, “I have to go, Jimmy.” He leaves off the _I love you_ and runs through all the shallow facsimiles in his head, until he can settle on, “Thank you for that.”

Jimmy makes an irritated noise and says, _“Write when you know your next day off.”_ Then there’s a clicking noise, and Thomas is inexplicably empty.

He lingers, then lowers the telephone, and he lets Mr. Carson take it from him and replace it on the desk. It occurs to him belatedly that some lucky operator will have just gotten an earful, if she were smart enough to listen in. Thomas sucks in a breath and steadies himself. 

Then he marches out the door without a word to the disgruntled butler behind him, because his clothes are suddenly a problem, and yes, he’s very hard, and he has to go drown himself in memories and his own inadequate hand.


End file.
